


In the Name of Science

by carmenta



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Rice
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-01
Updated: 1999-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Talamasca watches and is always there, and they also collect what they find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Name of Science

Closets upon closets filled with paper stacks, some of them sorted into folders, others just piled onto the shelves. Paling ink on parchment, the handwritings changing from very old-fashioned to just plain old-fashioned. Even some palimpsests were among them, the texts beneath appearing to have been stories of the lives of saints and martyrs. How very fitting, and how ironic. Newer sheets covered with the crude letters of typewriters, the formerly white paper turning yellow with age. The newest entries in the files were computer printouts, numbered and carrying the file name.

But there were not only the writings that held any interest; much more fascinating were the small cardboard boxes filled with old items one would expect to find at flea markets. Notebooks, torn black leather gloves, candleholders, a pocket watch that had never worked properly as far as he recalled. Things he had discarded as useless, but that he had not intended to be collected to serve as proofs for his existence.

"Those objects are my property still," he told the shivering scholar that crouched in the corner of the cellar room, too afraid to stay, but too enchanted to leave. "Nobody has the right to take them away and tag them like a museum would do with exhibits."

He continued to examine the things, smiling a little when he found a small paper rose that had lost all color, had faded as if it were a real flower and able to whither. Meanwhile, the scholar was trying to leave nevertheless, intending to call some of his brethren. Mortals, so easy to read. He gripped the man mentally, held him down to the floor.

"If I want more company, I will tell you."

"Will you talk to us? There are so many unanswered questions."

"Questions that should have never been asked in the first place," he replied, shaking his head at the sight of a coffin made of dark brown oak. Beautiful handiwork, that much he could see at the first glance. One could not hope to find something similar in this age of mass production.

"We only watch to preserve the knowledge and history."

"There must be a purpose behind it all. Nobody watches for the sake of watching. By the way," he tore off the tag that was sticking to the lid of the coffin with duct tape, "you labelled this one wrong; it never belonged to me. Somebody has not been paying attention, it seems." He frowned. "I do not appreciate it if work is not properly done."

"I will make sure that it is corrected," the scholar hurried to say. An old man, his hair completely white already. Surely he had spent all his life in those dusty vaults, devoting every waking hour to what those mortals called studying the supernatural.

Supernatural. What an ugly word. He did not feel anything but natural those nights.

"Can you imagine," the scholar whispered, "what it means to us, to me, to have you here? One of the most mysterious of your kind, clearly identified for once..."

"You speak of me as if I were a criminal." He shook his head. "I do not understand why anybody should be interested in collecting all this material on beings like me without the intent to control or destroy us finally."

"We would never do such a thing," came the weak protest from the scholar.

"I seem to recall an incident in 1924," he drew closer, his voice growing sharper. "Two close acquaintances of me were unearthed from their hiding places and exposed to the sunlight. The man who did it claimed that it had been necessary to take photographs of the effects of the sun on our bodies." He shrugged. "That man died the same night, a very painful death. Usually I don't like to be that cruel."

The scholar was horrified. "None of us would have dared to do such a thing! The man you describe cannot have been a member of our order, that is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," he said calmly. "If I have learned anything in the long centuries of my existence, it is that anything is possible." He paused for a moment. "That man was one of you. He carried a letter addressed to your headquarter in London, and it was not hard to read his mind once his defenses were gone."

"What did you do to him?" The old man was still shaking, both with excitement and with fright.

Such a smooth surface beneath the dust; running his fingertips along the thin blade, the metal seeming to come alive. It sparkled in the weak light of the bulb dangling from the ceiling on bare wires. So old, and not even rusty, the best steel at the time. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the blacksmith's voice, hoarse from standing in the heat and smoke of the forge all day, telling him that so fine a blade was hard to find, that it would never fall victim to rust. The man would have been delighted to know that his promise had not been broken two centuries later.

"I told you already. Pay attention, take notes if you must." So foolish, those mortals who believed that it was necessary to gather knowledge as if it was the lifeline that kept them from drowning.

What was this in the crude wooden box, this leather-bound stack of parchment? He very nearly held his breath as he gently lifted the book out of its case, not daring to believe that it was what he hoped it to be.

"How could you just take all those things away and store them in your vaults," he whispered.

"Our investigators found them in abandoned houses..."

"My kind never abandons a house," he replied, more harshly than he had intended to. "We always return, and if it takes us centuries to do so."

The pages were hardened with age, threatened to break under the mere touch. Dampness had worked its inevitable destruction on the handwritten letters, the exquisitely drawn images. Still the colors were visible, the fine lines of red and blue and gold. How much this had meant to him once, how important it had been. Years and years of his life had been based upon this. But with the passing of time, the meaning of the texts and psalms and epistles and prayers had faded until it was a shadow hovering in the back of his mind, always present but never gaining any real influence any longer.

"You had no right to take all this away for your studies." His voice was firm again, his body recalling the all too familiar movements, poses, signals that served to unsettle and frighten. After centuries of practice it felt only natural to let them surface, there no longer was anything artificial about them. "Like common thieves you come to steal what belongs to others, items that are sorely missed."

"We did nothing but preserve them," answered the scholar. "As a museum would do, so did we."

"Do you allow the public to view your collection? Can anybody come here and have a look at the treasures you have gathered during the years? I should not think so."

"Our purpose is not to exhibit. We exist to study."

"And *we* exist to be your laboratory rabbits? Is that what my kind is to you? Specimens to be watched, so you can take your notes and your pictures and write your reports? I have a surprise for you, my watching friend. Some of your rats have realized that they are being observed, and they won't allow it to happen any longer." He turned to face the scholar, not bothering at all to appear mortal-like. "If you refuse to call back the investigators assigned to my kind, they will be killed without exception. Do not think of this as a warning, or a threat. Think of it as a fact."

For a moment he paused to see if the old man had understood. From the expression on the wrinkled face, it seemed so. Very well. He appreciated quick comprehension.

"I assume that you know the postal address of at least one of my lawyers. You will send all my belongings that are stored in these vaults to them. And do not try to betray me, I will know if something is missing."

With those words he turned around, left the old scholar alone in the dimly lit vault among the dusty old objects.


End file.
